54 EXCUSES

54 Excuses

“Well, look who’s here," Bob said, cheerily. "If it ain’t my dear friend, Boom Boom, the wizard of Wall Street. Come in, come in.” Bob led me into his study. “Glad you could make it; I'm delighted to see you. So, how’s the market and horses treating you these days?”

“Oh, no complaints. Been short the market and long on horses. In fact, got a filly running tomorrow at Belmont. It’s why I’m in town.”

“Ah, I see. She gonna win?”

“‘Hope so, but it’s only her second start. Should have won her debut, but she stumbled out the gate. Went right to her knees and had too many lengths to make up. But this time? Yeah, I guess you could say I like her chances.”

“You guess? Listen to you— chances, schmances. And you call yourself a horse owner; the ultimate optimist, heh heh. If you expect to squeeze a hondo from this old dude, you’re supposed to say: heck yeah, Foxy, slam dunk. Bet the farm and we’ll meet at D’Nato’s in the Village for a victory dinner.”

“Go easy on me, bucko. Wasn’t it you who once said bangtails have a way of making monkeys out of owners?”

“Yep, that be me. You remember your lessons well, I see.” Bob motioned to a tray of delectable treats as he coaxed the cork from a fine Bordeaux. “Dig in. Marianne made us a few hors d’oeuvres before she went to work.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Bob Fox had been more than a friend. He’d been a patient and valued advisor from the start, helping me learn the horse game stemming from his years hosting a weekly TV show on New York racing. His home office is a virtual gallery of awards, photos, and memorabilia. One such item caught my eye: 54 Excuses.

Its alluring title drew me closer. I knew there was only one way to win a horse race, but after scanning the zany document, I failed to disguise my guilt-ridden grin. I was hooked.

“Where in blue blazes did you find this little gem?”

“Oh that, isn’t it neat? I found it in a trainer’s tack room at Aqueduct. Over the years, some dude must have compiled a list of excuses horse owners use after losing a race. Lord knows I’ve heard ‘em all at some point. Don’t ya love it?”

Hmm, fifty-four of 'em, I mused, pausing to reflect while scanning the list. “And collected over the years you said, eh?” My facetious grin widened. “You know, Mr. Fox, this reminds me of a totally nonsensical day with my buddies once— and not so long ago."

“No kidding.” Bob added another measure of wine to my glass and directed me to an overstuffed armchair. “Sit down. Make yourself at home and tell me about it.”

“Okay, but I think I should change one name to protect the innocent.”

Bob raised his glass in toast. “Ha ha, whatever you say, chump, but here's to us guilty ones.”

“Now, let’s see; where to begin,” I said, carefully composing my thoughts while keeping an impish eye on that list of excuses. “Well, a few years ago, my country club cronies and I decided to pool our money and try our luck at owning a race horse. We were excited and hired Terry Pawl as agent for buying a yearling.”

“Ah, a good choice. I know Terry well; heck of a horseman.”

“Yes, he is. At Saratoga’s auction, Terry didn’t come close on our first two tries, but kept at it. Anxiety mounted as the action slowed on a third prospect. Terry was bidding on a chestnut colt, and this time, the price was within our budget. One partner had his young son along who blurted just as the hammer fell on Terry's bid: ‘are we gonna get diss’un, daddy?’"

“We were giddy and even decided to name the colt, Dissun Terry— in honor of little Mikey's outcry. Yeah, we were in the game, alright— hook, line, and stinker,” I said, chuckling.

“Well, the colt grew and muscled out nicely during breaking and early training. Our optimism swelled as we approached race day, but Dissun Terry let us down miserably, running tenth of twelve starters.

“‘Ah, don’t worry about it, boys,’ the trainer said. ‘Few horses ever win their first out. With more experience, he’s sure to improve.’

"Okay, we bought the story, and weeks later our deflated eqos again ballooned with can’t-miss enthusiasm. Though only a modest race for maiden claimers, to us it seemed like Derby Day.

“All but two of the partners arrived early though our race was ninth on the card. And what a group we were— might as well have showed up wearing neon lapel buttons, flashing: "newbies".

"Doc and his attorney sidekick, Dave, were decked to the nines in fancy duds. Fabino again brought little Mikey. Then came Big Rich, Chuck, and Larry; the three of them coming casual but sporting lucky fedoras or ties. Even little Mikey squealed: ‘our horsie's gonna win today, right Daddy?’

"'A sure thing, son."

“Though overcast and threatening rain, nothing could dampen our spirits. We were not to be dismayed proudly flaunting new-owner passes with pomp and positive energy.

“We bided time betting early races while chatting and sipping brews until Charlie Sharp, the colt's trainer, arrived. Something was amiss; he seemed aloof and uneasy.

“‘You look perplexed,’ I said. ‘Is something on your mind?’

"Charlie thoughtfully sipped his beer before voicing concerns. ‘Actually, a few things do bother me,’ he said.

"Our revelry waned as we circled Charlie, anxious to hear details when Big Rich blurted; ‘hell’s, bells! What’s eatin’ ya? Are we gonna run today, or what?’

“Startled by Big Rich’s demeanor, and not knowing us all that well, Charlie paused a moment to read fidgety faces.

"‘Um, y’all remember Dissun’s first start when I said he didn’t run his race [27] that day, but said not to get discouraged? Well, I’m a bit worried he ain’t the same horse he was earlier [25] when you first hired me. I'm thinking maybe he was ruined by the hard track he came from [26].’

"Charlie was referring to the colt’s initial breaking at Kelly’s training center in South Carolina. We were dumfounded, our zeal going down the same drain as kidney-filtered beers.

“‘But y’all urged me on; to keep him in training— 'that he’ll be better next time, he needed the race [3]', you said, remember? Well, when you insisted he needs his races closer together [47],. I worked him harder. But if you ask me, I think he left his race on the training track [44]. In fact, I'm thinking he needs a rest [45].’

“Thank God someone had the presence of mind to suggest another round of drinks. ‘On me,’ Fabino volunteered, and started toward the bar.

“‘Change mine to whiskey!’ Chuck hollered.

“‘Yeah, and make it a double for me,’ Bill added.

"Fabino flashed a thumbs-up and soon returned with whiskies for everyone. I again asked Charlie if we were still going to run.

“‘Of course,’ Charlie confirmed. ‘It’s too late to scratch. But there’s still another thing that bothers me about last time; I’m pretty certain it wasn’t his distance [19].’

“‘I knew it. I just knew it,’ Bill said. ‘I’ve heard enough of this baloney. The guy’s got more excuses than Carter has pills. We came here for nothing.’

“Fabino faced the trainer, his expression distorted from a healthy gulp of whiskey. ‘Bill’s right, sounds like a bunch of hogwash to me, too. Just what are you trying to feed us, anyway? We all know why he lost his debut. The track was too deep [23] and the turns are too sharp at this track [28].’

“Larry interrupted. ‘Yeah, I too recall somethin’ about how he didn’t like the track [15]. So what gives, Sharp?’

"Dubious eyes set upon Charlie who, by now, sensed a need to allay mounting apprehension.

“‘It's like I said, boys, things were different then; his loss had nothin’ to do with the track.’ Charlie reminded us it was his first time he’s been around two turns[33], and then sheepishly added: ‘besides, there’s more things to worry about this time.’

“Hearing that, Bill took a menacing step toward Charlie. ‘Oh? You say there’s more— more excuses?’

“Charlie seemed unnerved and didn’t bother looking up from studying his boots. ‘Have you guys forgotten what you said about his race conditions— like: the weight was too much [1], or that maybe he was giving away too many pounds [18]?'

“Doc’s eyeballs rolled upward. ‘Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, is there anything else?’ He turned to Larry and poked him in the shoulder. ‘Can you believe this guy?’

“‘Yup. What have I been saying all along? It’s not meant to be,’ Larry mumbled. 'Let's face it, fellas, we never should o’ never done this. Humph, Dissun Terry. We sure bought us a bum, alright.’

“Larry’s prophetic rip inspired humbled opinions; our way of coming to grips with Dissun Terry’s certain demise. David was first to toe dispirited waters by spouting tin-horn knowledge that comes with rookie ownership. “‘What’s Charlie talkin’ about? Why should distance bother him just because his sire was only a sprinter [39]?’

“‘So much for what you know,’ Doc countered. ‘That was his broodmare sire, dummy. His sire could only win at a mile and a half [40].’ Both bozos stood staring at each other, neither one sure of what the other really knew.

“‘Why is everybody so riled?’ I said. ‘Maybe he needs blinkers [52], is all.’ But that only spurred a sharp retort from the bulky Chuck standing to my left.

“‘That’s a load a malarkey,’ Chuck grumbled. ‘We all know he runs better without blinkers [53].’

“A little shoving and glaring induced Charlie to referee. ‘Boys, calm down. We gotta be going now, anyway. It’s almost race time.’

“Grateful for the reprieve, we ambled out to the saddling paddock, but not without stopping for more liquid courage. Despite a light drizzle, crowds gathered round, but we managed to wedge our way in along the paddock railing.

“‘Good grief,’ Fabiino groaned. ‘Look at all these people. Why so dang many have to hang around here, for crissake. We’re the owners, not them.’

“‘Look at Dissun Terry,’ Rich said, pointing his drink toward the saddling stall, a dollup of whiskey slopping onto little Mikey’s head. ‘Looks to me like the crowd scared him [5].’

“To us, it was obvious he was nervous [14].’

“Dissun Terry kept prancing and pawing the ground until the call for ‘riders up’ was heard above the din of the crowd. People dispersed as jockeys guided their mounts toward post parade. We continued on through the clubhouse and claimed a vantage point along the outside rail near the wire.

“On the way, Doc pulled at David’s arm. ‘Saaay, ain’t you gonna get a bet down first?’

“‘Hell no,’ David said. ‘You heard what the trainer said. Besides, didn't you notice? Don’t you know nuthin’ about horses, Doc?’

“‘What d’ya mean?’ Doc blinked, wondering what he’d missed.

“David seized a second chance at one-upmanship. ‘Look around ya. Can’t you see it’s been raining?’ He swept his hand about the grounds as if blessing the place. Armed with nouveau-authority, David continued to educate. ‘Why, any fool can see he wasn’t wearing his mud caulks [35]. And another thing, doofus, the jockey didn’t fit him [43]. Look at him. He's too gangly for my likin', and, he had a bad post [2]. No sir-eee, bub. No bet for me.’

“The horses finished warm up jogs and were nearing the gate. We guzzled refills to stave off the jitters, our eyes glued to the far side of the track. Assistant starters snatched bridles and began leading horses into the starting gate. No one spoke, yet our faces were plenty audible: saints preserve us, our champion is about to get his ass kicked.

“Larry pointed at Dissun Terry. ‘Good Lord, do you see what I see?’ He was fractious at the gate [46].' Yes, he seemed to be wasting precious energy fighting his handlers when the intercom came to life: ‘they’re all in, the flag is up, aaaaaaaaand they’re off!’

“Only seconds after the explosive start, Chuck's face twisted; he was fuming. ‘Good God almighty! The assistant starter held his tail [48]. Damn him,’ Chuck cursed, but Larry corrected.

“‘Not so, the jockey was asleep when the gate opened [49]. That’s why he walked out of the gate [50].'

“‘Damn!’ I yelled. ‘He should have gone to the lead [29].’

“‘Whadja ‘spect, how could he,’ Doc slurred, ‘the jockey almost fell off [42] when the saddle slipped [31].’

“But as it turned out, we were all wrong. Two jumps from the start, the jockey lost his irons [34] as he was knocked off stride coming out of the gate [11]. Worse, another horse clipped his heels [24] and he lost a shoe [32]. Yet amidst the jostling and banging of flanks battling for positions, the jockey managed to hold on, his knees pinching the colt’s withers with all the strength he could muster.

David was transfixed on the action. He cringed, grabbed both ears, and yelled. ‘Ugh! I think he stepped in a hole [51]!’

“Larry again proffered correction: ‘no he didn’t, he jumped over a hole in the track [6], you twit.’

“David's goof exposed, he glowered as the horses neared the half mile pole. By now, it seemed the early pace was too much [4]; the jockey moved too soon [12]. Moving quickly forward, the jockey had to take him up [41]. By now, it was obvious the jockey didn’t rate him [8] because he was too close to the early pace [9], expending precious energy needed for a closing rush that spelled certain defeat. I glanced at Charlie who was using binoculars.

“‘It looks to me like he was climbing, not running [16],’ Charlie said, but suddenly became enraged. ‘What’s that numbskull doing? The jockey hit him left handed [36] when I told him never to hit him on that side.’ Charlie feared Dissun Terry might bolt to the outside, and seething with contempt for Gomez, he lowered his glasses.

“Chuck’s face gnarled into knots. ‘The jockey shouldn’t have hit him [37] at all. He needed a stronger hand ride [38],’ f’crissake!’

“‘Charlie’s right. Look!’ I yelled. ‘He was trying to bear out all the way [20].’ To our dismay, he lost too much ground on the outside [10]. My God, I prayed, trying to will the jockey into doing something— and quickly. I must have conjured up too much mojo, because at that moment, we witnessed yet another ill-fated decision.

“‘By now he was trying to get in all the way [21]!’ Chuck was boiling. ‘Christ, Gomez! Don’t you know where you’re going? The blasted idiot should know better; we've always said it was too deep on the rail [17].’

“‘Yup, here we go again, "tenth!’ Faabino said, kicking the chain-link fence. 'We're finished.'

"I nodded. There was no doubt the jockey moved too late [13] because he got pinched back at the turn [7].

“Suddenly, a spark of hope recharged the ranks as Dissun Terry quickened his stride. But as he tried sneaking free between horses, he was blocked in the stretch [22] with less than a furlong to go. Our confidence sputtered like a spent balloon.

“We’d had enough and couldn’t bear to watch another stride. Larry and Doc held each other for mutual comfort. Rich and Fabino draped their arms over the fence and stared at the dirt in defeat. I felt dizzy and closed my eyes to steady myself.

“Chuck and Bill were the only two watching the final yards disappear as a wall of horses passed in front with nostrils flared, ears pinned, and heads bobbing. Chuck rocked Bill with a heavy hand to the shoulder.

“‘Will ya look at Gomez, the useless pipsqueak!” Chuck yelled, pointing at the jockey. ‘Hey, Gomez; are you stupid or what! You went and used him up! Don’t ya know he spit the bit [30]?’ Chuck mumbled a string of expletives, turned his back to the track, and threw his drink at the pavement.

“As quickly as the crowd's cheering reached a crescendo, noise flittered to scattered shouts as horses crossed the finish line. Hundreds of torn tickets were tossed into the air while other patrons bounced on their toes, pinching wagers praying for a favorable photo.

“As for us, within the span of a minute and change, we were reduced to a band of blithering losers when Charlie’s cell phone came to life.

"'Hello, Kelly,' Charlie answered, noting the caller ID. "What's new with you in South Carolina, these days?"

“‘For one thing, I caught the race on simulcast. What’s your take on Dissun Terry?’

“Charlie glanced at his crestfallen owners. ‘As I see things right now? Uh, I guess you could say he just didn’t run his race today [54].’

“‘What? I don’t get it,’ Kelly mumbled, studying his off-track monitor. ‘What do you mean— he didn’t run his race today? I thought he did well to hang in there despite the rough start.” Kelly’s professional eye suggested that Dissun Terry showed a little class in only his second start.

“‘I know, but it’s a long story and I gotta run. I’ll call you back.’ Charlie cut him off and went to help his groom with the unsaddling, who by now was walking Dissun in circles with four other horses in front of the grandstand.

“'I still don't get it,' Kelly hung up. ‘Something’s really strange up there in River City. What do those idiots expect, a run-away romp every time? Ha, and now lookie there,’ Kelly chuckled, pointing at the off-track monitor. ‘It’s official. Dissun got it by a nostril.’

The photo finish confirmed results as cameras zoomed in on a jubilant Charlie Sharp leading a tired, but feisty chestnut into the winner’s circle.

* * *

"Ha, ha!" Bob roared. “Well I’ll be a son-of-a-gun; a heck of a story, you rascal. Why, I’d bet a bunch my producer would love to make a movie out of that corker, but the Marx Brothers are dead. And looking on the flip side, you’ve also proved my point: in a minute and change, Dissun Terry made a monkey out of you all— and those excuses.”

“All right, all right. I yield. But if you promise to be nice, I got another story for you. It’s about a humbled monkey who’s willing to buy a win ticket for his buddy tomorrow— providing the big ape gets to swap lies while sipping more wine tonight.”

“I hear ya, pard, but I’m fresh out of Banana Ripple. You’ll have to settle for Chateau Moutin, but I guess you’re worth it.” As Bob pulled the cork, he paused. “You know, on second thought, I have an even better proposition.”

Bob peeled a c-note from his money clip. “Here, put this on your filly’s nose tomorrow, but, on one condition. You promise not to boost that list to fifty-five or more with something like: oh,she stumbled and had too many lengths to make up; you wore the wrong hat; or the moon was in the wrong phase; or whatever. Then Marianne and I will have no excuse but to join you at D’Nato’s for dinner tomorrow night— deal?”

I reached for his hand, my face surely matching the rich Bordeaux as we enjoyed sharing mischievous grins. “Deal!”